The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  The electric lights shot up brightly, like popping stars out of the darkness, and white glow arched itself over the town. Soon the shrill screech of a locomotive split the silence, then a rumbling and puffing told of an outward bound freight. The gleam of a headlight streaked along the rails. Chase saw with satisfaction that the train was on his track, but he had an uneasy feeling that it was running too fast to be boarded.

  The huge black engine, like a one-eyed demon, roared by, shaking the earth. Chase watched the cars rattle by and tried to gauge their speed. It was so dark he could scarcely see, but he knew the train was running too fast to catch with safety. Still he did not hesitate. He waited a moment for an oil-car, and as one came abreast he dashed with it down the track. Reaching up with his left hand, he grasped a handlebar. Instantly he was swung upward and slapped against the car. But Chase knew that swing, and it did not break his hold. As he dropped back to an upright position he felt for the footstep, found it, and was safe.

  He climbed aboard and sat against the oil-tank, placing his grip beside him. He laughed as he wiped the sweat from his brow. That was a time when the fun of boarding a freight did not appear. The blackness was all about him now; fields and woods and hills blurring by. The wind sang in his ears and cooled his face. The stars blinked above. The rasp and creak of the cars, the rhythmic click of the rails, the roar and rumble, were music to him, for they sang of the passing miles between him and wherever he was going.

  Lights of villages twinkled by like Jack-o’-lanterns. These were succeeded after a while by the blank dim level of open country, that to Chase swept by monotonously for hours. Then a whistle enlivened him. He felt the engineer put on the air-brake, then the bumping and jarring of cars, and the grinding of wheels.

  As the train slowed up, Chase made ready to jump off. He did so presently, expecting to see the lights of a town, but there were none. He saw the shadow of a block-signal house against the dark sky and concluded the engineer had stopped for orders at a junction-crossing. Chase hurried along the tracks, found an open boxcar, and climbed in.

  It was an empty car with a layer of hay on the floor. He groped his way in the gloom, found a corner, and lay down with his head on his grip. It was warm and comfortable there; he felt tired. A drowsiness overcame the novelty of his situation, and he was falling asleep when he heard voices. Then followed the shuffling and scrambling noise made by several men climbing into the car. They went into another corner.

  For a while he could not make out the meaning of their low, hoarse whispering; but as it grew louder he caught the drift. The men were thieves; they had robbed someone and were quarrelling over the spoils. One was a negro, judging by his voice, and it was evident the other two were leagued against him.

  The train started up with a rattle and clatter, gathered headway, and rolled on with steady roar. From time to time Chase heard angry voices even above the din of the wheels. He was thankful for the dark and the noise. What they might do if they discovered him caused him to grow cold with fear. He shrank into the corner and listened.

  Whether it was after a few minutes or a long hour he had no idea, but when the whistle shrieked out again and the train slackened for another stop, he realized the thieves were fighting. Hoarse cries and sodden blows, curses, and a deep groan told of a deed of violence.

  “Let’s beat it,” whispered one, in the sudden silence. “Here comes a brake.”

  The train had stopped. Footsteps grated outside, and streaks of light flickered into the car. Chase saw two men jump from the door and heard a brake man accost them. He lay there trembling. What if the brakeman flashed his light into the car? What would be seen in the other corner? But the footsteps died away. Before he noticed it the train got in motion again; and he lay there wavering till the speed became so great that he dared not jump off.

  To ride with a dead thief was not so frightful as to ride with a live one, thought Chase, but it was bad enough. His mind began to focus on one point, that he must get out of the car, and the more he thought the more fearful grew his state. While he lay there the train rolled on and the time flew by. All at once it appeared the blackness had given way to gray shadow. It grew lighter and lighter. He rose and went to the door. Day was dawning.

  The train was approaching a hamlet and ran parallel with a dusty road. Without a second’s hesitation Chase leaped from the car. Through a rush of wind he alighted on his feet, bounced high, to fall heavily and roll over and over in the dust.

  CHAPTER III

  FAME

  Chase would have sustained worse bruises than he got to rid himself of the atmosphere of that car. When he was once free of it, however, he fell to wondering if the negro were really killed. Perhaps he had only been wounded and was in need of assistance that Chase could have rendered. This thought cut him, but he dismissed it from mind, and addressed himself once more to his problem.

  The village consisted of a few cottages; there was no railroad station, and on a siding stood a car marked T. & O. C.

  Chase sat in the grass beside the track and did not know whether to walk on or wait for another train. Meanwhile, the sun rose warm and bright, shining on the bursting green leaves; meadowlarks sang in a field near by, and flocks of blackbirds winged irregular flight overhead.

  That May morning was full of life and hope for Chase, but even so, when two hours passed by with no train or even person putting in appearance, he began to grow restless and presently made a remarkable discovery. He was hungry. He had not given a thought to such a thing as eating. It was rather discomfiting to awaken to the fact that even in quest of fortune, meals were necessary.

  A column of blue smoke was curling lazily from one of the cottages, and thither Chase made his way. He knocked on the kitchen door, which was opened by a woman.

  “Good-morning,” said Chase.

  “May I have a bite to eat?”

  “You ain’t a tramp?” queried she, eying him shrewdly.

  “No, indeed. I can pay.”

  “I thought not. Tramps don’t say ‘Good-mornin’. I reckon you kin hev somethin’. Sit on the bench there.”

  She brought him milk, and bread and butter, and a generous slice of ham. While he was eating, a boy came out to gaze at him with round eyes, and later a lanky man with pointed beard walked up the path, his boots wet with dew.

  “Mornin’,” he said cheerily, “be yew travellin’ fur?”

  “Quite far, I guess,” replied Chase. “How far is Columbus, or the first big place?”

  “Wal, now, Columbus is a mighty long way, much as fifty miles, I calkilate. An’ the nearest town to hum here is Jacktown, cross fields some five miles. It’s a right pert place. It’ll be lively today, by gum!”

  “Why?” said Chase, with his mouth full of ham.

  “Wal, Jacktown an’ Brownsville hev it out today, an’ I’ll bet it’ll be the dog-gondest ball game as ever was.”

  “Ball game!”

  “You bet. Jacktown ain’t ever been beat, an’ neither has Brownsville. They’ve been some time gittin’ together, but today’s the day. An’ I’ll be there.”

  “I’m going, too,” said Chase, quietly. “I’m a ball player.”

  After Chase had crossed this Rubicon, he felt more confident. He knew he would have to say it often, and he wanted practice. And the importance of his declaration was at once manifest in the demeanor of the man and the boy.

  “Wal, I swan! You be, be you? I might hev knowed it, a strappin’ young feller like you.”

  The boy’s round eyes grew rounder and took on the solemn rapture of hero worship.

  “How might I find my way to Jacktown?” inquired Chase.

  “You might wait an’ ride with me. Thet road leads over, ’round about. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, I shan’t wait. I’ll walk over. Good-day.”

  Chase headed into the grassy lane without knowing exactly why. The word “game” had attracted him, as well as the respective merits of the two teams; but
it was mostly that he wanted to play. After consideration, it struck him that he would do well to get into a few games before he made application to a salaried team.

  He spent the morning lounging along the green lane, sitting under a tree, and on a mossy bank of a brook, and killing time in pretty places, so that when he reached Jacktown it was noon.

  At the little tavern where he had lunch, the air was charged with the electricity of a coming storm. The place was crowded with youths and men of homely aspect; all were wildly excited over the baseball game. He was regarded with an extraordinary amount of interest; and finally, when a tall individual asked him if he were a ball player, to be answered affirmatively, there was a general outburst.

  “He’s a ringer! Brownsville knowed they’d git beat with their home team, so they’ve loaded up!”

  That was the burden of their refrain, and all Chase’s stout denials in no wise mitigated their suspicion. He was a “ringer.” To them he was an object of scorn and fear, for he had come from somewhere out of the vast unknown to wrest their laurels from them.

  Outside little groups had congregated on corners and in the street, and suddenly, as by one impulse, they gathered in a crowd before the tavern. Ample reason there was for this, because some scout had sighted the approach of the visiting team. Chase gathered that Brownsville was an adjoining country town, and, since time out of mind, a hated rival.

  Wagons and buggies, vehicles of all kinds and descriptions, filed by on the way to the ball-grounds; and a haywagon with a single layer of hay and a full load of husky young men stopped before the tavern. The crowd inspected the load of young men with an anxiety most manifest, and soon remarks were heard testifying that the opposing team had grace enough to come with but one ringer.

  The excitement, enthusiasm, and hubbub were amusing to Chase. He knew nothing of the importance of a game of ball between two country towns. While he was standing there a slim, clean-faced young man came up to him.

  “My name’s Hutchinson,” he said. “I’m the school-teacher over at Brownsville, and I’m here to catch the game for our fellows. Now, it appears there’s some fuss about you being a ringer. We don’t know you, and we don’t care what Jacktown thinks. But the fact is, our pitcher hurt his arm and can’t play. Either we play or forfeit the game. If you can pitch we’ll be glad to have you. How about it?”

  Chase assented readily, and moved to the haywagon with Hutchinson, while the crowd hooted and yelled. Small boys kept up a running pace with the wagon, and were not above flinging pebbles along with shouts of defiance. At the end of the village opened up a broad green meadow, upon which was the playground. There was a barn to one side, where the wagon emptied its load; and here the young men went within to put on their uniforms.

  The uniform handed to Chase was the one belonging to the disabled pitcher, who must have been a worthy son of Ajax. For Chase was no stripling, yet he was lost in its reach and girth. The color of it stunned him. Brightest of bright red flannel, trimmed with white stripes, with white cotton stockings, this gorgeous suit voiced the rustic lads’ enthusiasm for the great national game.

  But when Chase went outside and saw the uniforms decorating the proud persons of the Jacktown nine, he could hardly suppress a wild burst of mirth. For they wore blue caps, pink shirts, green trousers, and red stockings. Most of them were minus shoes, and judging from their activity were as well off without them.

  What was most striking to Chase, after the uniforms, was the deadly earnestness of the players of both teams. This attitude toward the game extended to the spectators crowding on the field. Chase did not need to be told that the whole of Jacktown was present and much of Brownsville.

  Hutchinson came up to Chase then, tossed a ball to him, and said they had better have a little practice. After Chase had warmed up he began throwing the ball with greater speed and giving it a certain twist which made it curve. This was something he had recently learned. At first Hutchinson was plainly mystified; he could not get his hands on the ball. It would hit him on the fingers or wrists, and finally a swift in-shoot struck him in the stomach. Wherefore he came up to Chase and said:

  “I never saw a ball jump like that. What’d you do to it?”

  “I’m throwing curves.”

  A light broke over the schoolmaster’s face, and it was one of pleasure. “I’ve read about it. You are throwing the new way. But these lads never heard of a curve. They’ll break their backs trying to hit the ball. Now tell me how I shall know when you are going to throw a curve.”

  “You sign for what you want. When you kneel back of the batter sign to me, one finger for fastball, two fingers for a curve.”

  “Good!” cried Hutchinson.

  After a little more practice, he managed with the aid of his lately acquired knowledge to get in front of Chase’s curves and to stop them. Presently a pompous individual wearing the Jacktown uniform came up to Chase and Hutchinson.

  “Battin’ order,” he said, waving his pencil.

  Hutchinson gave the names of his players, and when he mentioned Chase’s the Jacktown man either misunderstood or was inclined to be facetious.

  “Chaseaway? Is thet his name? Darn me, if he won’t chase away to the tall timber.”

  He was the captain, and with a great show of authority called both teams ’round the home plate for the purpose of being admonished, lectured, and told how to play the game by the umpire. Chase had not seen this official, and when he did see him his jaw dropped. The umpire wore skin-tight velveteen knee-trousers, black stockings, and low shoes with buckles. His striped shirt was arranged in a full blouse, and on the side of his head was stuck very wonderfully a small, jaunty cap. He addressed the players as if he were the arbiter of fate, and he lifted his voice so that the audience could receive the benefit of his eloquence and understand perfectly the irrevocable nature of the decision he was about to render. In conclusion, he recited a number of baseball rules in general and ground-rules in particular, most remarkable in themselves and most glaringly designed to favor the home team.

  Chase extracted from the complexity of one of these rules that on a passed ball behind the catcher, or an overthrow at first, when Jacktown was at bat the player could have all the bases he could make; and when Brownsville was at bat, for some inscrutable reason, this same rule did not hold.

  Then this master of ceremonies ordered the Jacktown team into the field, tripped like a ballet-dancer to his position behind the catcher, and sang out in a veritable clarion blast: “P-l-a-y b-a-w-l!”

  Chase could scarcely remove his gaze from the umpire, but as his turn to bat came in the first inning he directed his attention to the Jacktown pitcher. He remembered that someone had said this important member of the Jacktowns was the village blacksmith.

  After one glance, Chase did not doubt it. The pitcher was a man of enormous build, and his bared right arm looked like a branch of a rugged oak-tree. The first ball he shot toward the home-plate resembled a thin white streak.

  “O-n-e S-t r-i-k-e!” shrieked the umpire.

  Two more balls similar to the first retired the batter, and three more performed the same office for the second batter. It was Chase’s turn next. He was a natural hitter, and had perfect confidence. But as the first ball zipped past him, looking about the size of a pea, he knew he had never before faced such terrific speed. Nor did he have power to see in that farmer blacksmith one of the greatest pitchers the game was ever to produce. Chase struck at the next two balls and was called out. Then the Jacktown players trooped in, to the wild clamor of their supporters.

  When Chase saw some of the big Jacktown fellows swing their bats he knew he would have an easy time with them, for they stood with their feet wide apart, and held their bats with the left hand over the right, which made a clean, straight swing impossible. He struck out the first three batters on nine pitched balls.

  For several innings it went on in that manner, each club blanking the other. When Brownsville came in for their fifth innin
g at bat, Chase got Hutchinson to call all the players ’round him in a bunch.

  “Boys,” he said, “we can hit this Jacktown pitcher. He throws a straight ball, almost always waist-high. Now, you all swing too hard. Let’s choke the bat, hold it halfway up instead of by the handle, and poke at the ball. Just meet it.”

  The first player up, acting on Chase’s advice, placed a stinging hit into right field. Whereupon the Brownsville contingent on the sidelines rose in a body and roared their appreciation of this feat. The second batter hit a ground ball at the shortstop, who fielded it perfectly, but threw wild to the base-man. And the third hitter sent up a very high fly.

  The whole Jacktown team made a rush to try to catch the ball when it came down. It went so high that it took sometime to drop, all of which time the Brownsville runners were going like mad ’round the bases. When the ball returned to earth, so many hands were raised to clutch it that it bounced away to the ground. One runner had scored, and two were left, on second and third bases respectively.

  Chase walked to the plate with determination. He allowed the first ball to go by, but watched it closely, gauging its speed and height. The next one he met squarely with a solid crack. It shot out over second base, went up and up, far beyond the fielder. Amid the delirious joy of the Brownsville partisans the two runners scored ahead of Chase, and before the ball could be found, he too reached home.

  The Jacktown players went to pieces after that, and fumbled so outrageously and threw so erratically that Brownsville scored three more runs before the inning was over.

  Plain it was that when Jacktown came in for their bat, nothing short of murder was impossible for them. They were wild-eyed, and hopped along the baselines like Indians on the war-path. But yell and rage and strive all they knew how, it made no difference. They simply could not get their bats to connect with Chase’s curves. They did not know what was wrong.